


This Was Never in the ABCs of Growing Up

by dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has the best plans. Trust Jackson to throw a spanner in the works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Was Never in the ABCs of Growing Up

**Author's Note:**

> I had really great prompts to work with. Thanks to my beta who worked really hard on this and to the mods for organising the challenge.

There was a good possibility Stiles was too much of a “nice guy” when it came to Lydia, what with the compliments and the presents and the pathetic longing. And that led to the best Plan B in the history of Plan Bs, which had made all kinds of sense at the time.

“A strip club?” Scott looked at him in that way that was more of a shocked stare than a red-blooded male way. “Allison will kill me.”

“No. She won’t.” Stiles crossed his fingers behind his back. Allison did know how to use deadly weapons. On the other hand, she was unreasonably fond of Scott’s dick, and maybe they could use that to their advantage. “Because we won’t be going to see boobs. That aren’t hers. Not that I want to see her boobs.”

Scott’s shock melded seamlessly into complete befuddlement. “… What?”

Stiles realised he’d probably lost control of the conversation. “I’m going to retrain myself. Naked flesh is naked flesh, right? I’m a teenager. The kitchen table makes me horny. So male strippers are going to be perfect. You don’t get into trouble with Allison, I get to focus on not-Lydia, and it’ll all work out brilliantly.” Genius.

Scott was shaking his head. “I don’t think it works like that. And, dude. The kitchen table? Really?”

“Not, like, your kitchen table.” Scott was kinda dim sometimes, but maybe he did have a point. “Maybe – just maybe – I’m a little bi sometimes. It was the only strip club I could find, all right.”

“How hard did you look?” Scott shook his head, but Stiles knew he had him. Best bros on the road, wild night out. What could possibly go wrong?

So maybe Stiles was lying, but it wasn’t like Scott had enough control over his wolfy powers to be able to tell. Not yet. He was so used to lying to Scott he doubted his heartbeat had even spiked. Scott didn’t need to know that, since Stiles’s whole mental imaginings had shifted beyond kissing and the odd grope to full technicolour he was more than a little bi. He still wanted to play lacrosse, alright, and maybe the team was fine with Danny, but Stiles wasn’t first line. And there were reasons. Lots of reasons.

None of those reasons mattered when they stumbled through the fire door of Spanky’s, the fine establishment his detailed research (ie. asking Danny subtly) had suggested. Scott kept his mouth shut and shuffled behind Stiles as they made their way through the darkness to a booth at the back. Stiles knew they ran the risk of being kicked out at any point. None of that mattered, though, as his eyes fixed on the man currently pulling velcroed pants off his muscular legs. Sure, the guy was a little old for him, but the twitch of his dick reassured him he was probably going to enjoy this.

Scott slid down until only his eyebrows were visible between the edge of the table and his pulled-down ball cap. Stiles tried to lean nonchalantly, scooping a couple of half-finished beers off the table next door when the mixed group of college-age students headed out. There. They were set. The place was busy, there was shouting and cheering and no one was going to notice two guys who were just a little out of place. The music was loud, pulsatingly, nauseatingly loud, and the lights seemed to be spinning like tops rather than the more stately lights he’s come to expect from his vast experience of clubs. Twice. 

The music changed and a whole group of women – probably a batchelorette party, now that Stiles could see the tiara and veil – hooted as a guy dressed as a soldier came out from behind the curtains. He even had a toy gun. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Stiles found this anything but attractive, especially as the man began to grind and hump his way across the floor.

“Are female strip clubs as tacky as this?” Stiles spun to see Scott had his eyes screwed shut. His knuckles were white around the purloined beer bottle.

“I don’t know, Stiles.” The answer was rapidly followed by another soft mutter that was probably “Allison is going to kill me.” Again.

Thankfully the next dancer was better than the first. Taller. Less muscle and more fluid lines. Stiles felt a pull in his gut, a spreading warmth. Okay. He knew what that was: attraction, pure and simple lust. Maybe this would be okay after all. Stiles began to relax, taking a sip of the warm, flat beer. It was still alcoholic, right?

Dancer number three was a winner. He was dressed as some kind of fantasy schoolboy in a shirt, tie, and sweater vest. But because disaster was always bound to happen, just as sure as his name was Stiles Stilinski, dancer number three also happened to be Jackson Whittemore. And to make matters worse, it looked like he knew what he was doing. Stiles flung his arm out to grab at Scott, who looked even more panicked than he had moments ago.

Stiles knew his mouth hung open but he couldn’t make words come out. First off, how could Jackson, who was just as very underage as Stiles, be stripping? And secondly, why would Jackson Whittemore, rich kid extraordinaire, whose parents had bought him a fucking _Porsche_ need to do so in the first place? And thirdly, oh so very thirdly, how did Jackson manage to move his body like that?

Stiles was hot, bothered and totally and utterly fucked. And not in a good way.

Jackson was no less his usual asshole self as he unselfconsciously swayed on the stage, removing layer after layer, exposing his perfect skin and washboard abs. (Eight pack. Seriously.) His pants came off, revealing the muscled thighs Stiles recognized from lacrosse practice; they powered into him on the field often enough. The smirk Jackson wore was taunting and arrogant, which apparently worked for him in the flashing lights and smoky atmosphere. His adoring audience seemed mesmerized, entranced and appreciating the slow, lascivious sway of Jackson’s hips just as much as Stiles was. Because Stiles was suddenly rock-hard in his pants, and there was no way Scott couldn’t smell it.

And yes, apparently Jackson could smell it, too, because his head shot up and his eyes met Stiles’s, and there was a moment when the mask dropped and Jackson was laid bare, terrified. How Jackson could pick him out over the waves of lust that must be coming from the women in front of him, Stiles didn’t want to know. Maybe something to do with familiarity from the locker room. Or pack. Then the mask shuttered down and he finished his routine, letting women paw at him with the excuse of tucking folded singles into his G-string. And Jackson was wearing a G-string. It was an invitation to ogle.

“So we’re leaving now.” Stiles knew his voice was squeaky. It echoed in his ears like it belonged to someone else.

Whatever. This was the worst plan in the history of plans. Even if, later, in his bed, completely and utterly alone, Stiles planned to wrap his hand around his cock and come harder than he could remember to the idea of Jackson using that sinuous grace to roll against him, that wet pout wrapped around Stiles’s cock, hot and talented and possibly with this totally hot angry look in his eyes.

 

In the grand scheme of things, Stiles knew he shouldn’t have been surprised that Jackson waited until lunch the following day to grab him and drag him into a vacant classroom. Jackson had his arrogant asshole face on, the one devoid of any emotion other than “I am great and you are as scum on my shoe.” It was still damn attractive, though, and reminded Stiles rather too vividly of the bizarre path his imagination had trotted down so eagerly last night.

“How much?” Jackson stood with his fists curled loosely by his side. The violence wasn’t so much implied as it was staring Stiles in the face.

Of course, Stiles had become pretty inured to threats of violence. He’d been beaten by Gerard Argent. He could deal. “How much what?”

“To keep quiet, Stilinksi. How much?” Jackson wasn’t looking straight at him, eyes fixed at a point over Stiles’s shoulder, but Stiles could see the hint of a blue glow mixing with the usual bright green. 

“I won’t say anything if you want. Just—” Stiles kinda regretted it. But he wasn’t the type of asshole whose conscience would be able to blackmail someone who didn’t really deserve it.

“What?” And now Jackson started to look confused.

“Why? How? Why?” Stiles seized up as he waved his hands around, trying to articulate all the muddled questions swirling in his head. “I mean. Stripping?”

Now Jackson came close, too close. Either because of the wolf heat warmth of his body or the way his claws were pricking Stiles’s skin through his too thin T-shirt, Stiles started to sweat. Stiles wondered if he’d finally managed to push Jackson too far, push his own luck when it came to werewolves that were all shiny and new and lacking control. Also, Jackson had possibly been taking lessons from Derek, thought Stiles as he was pushed back against the wall. Unfortunately his brain seemed to have some weird switch and, while Jackson might have had his shoulders pinned, Stiles’s hips shot forward, seeking… something. Pressure? A nice set of abs to rub his suddenly half-hard dick against? Again, Stiles was fucked.

“Don’t say that. People could hear.” Jackson looked uncomfortable and embarrassed. There was still a little less point to his fingernails and less of a gleam in his eyes. He had Stiles firmly back in the box where he wanted him. “I’d… I’d do that. Help you out,” he said, nodding to the growing erection in Stiles’s jeans

“You’re not a hooker. You’re a stripper.” Stiles licked his lips, nervously trying to chase away the dryness. Jackson’s eyes zeroed in on the movement before he flung himself away from Stiles.

“They think I’m eighteen. The money is mine. Not my father’s, nothing to do with the pack or Derek or anything else.” Jackson let out a low sigh, his shoulders falling out of the tense line he held them in. “It’s mine.”

Stiles could appreciate that, though he’d never thought of doing anything similar. If he wanted to get a job, he definitely couldn’t spend as much time playing video games and being Scott’s best friend. And sleeping. And jerking off. And that wasn’t going to happen. Maybe if his job involved some kind of free food…? But his attention was supposed to be on Jackson. “I won’t say anything.”

Jackson barged past him without saying anything else, but he nodded on the way out of the door. Stiles interpreted that as “Thank you very, very much, Mr Stilinski.”

 

Following their encounter in the bathroom, there was this… thaw. Jackson was still a complete ass, particularly when he charged at Stiles with a lacrosse stick in his hand, intent on maiming him, and he still took no interest in even pretending he knew Stiles existed in school, which suited Stiles fine. However, it was outside the weird hierarchy of the teenage jungle that Jackson seemed to actually think Stiles was worthwhile. One night at Allison’s, he asked Stiles’s opinion about computers, and another time he nodded when he ran into Stiles in the grocery store. Then there was an odd bro handshake moment after they’d all fought off some green icky monster thing.

Stiles hadn’t done the research on that one. He’d mainly shrieked and stood behind Allison. Ranged weapons were amazing. Anyway.

Bro handshake aside, Stiles was also desperately trying to forget the whole “reaction” he had to Jackson. The way he tended to come really fucking hard when he imagined the other boy. It didn’t seem to matter how he positioned Jackson in his mind, his orgasms were as quick as they’d been back when he’d first discovered what his dick could do. Well. Maybe not quite that quick, but not far off it. And he’d managed to successfully retrain his brain by attending the strip club once. Maybe the magic properties would—

No. That was the stupidest of stupid plans. That was a Derek-level plan. That was right up there with standing in the middle of the forest after one arrow had gone through your shoulder to wait for the one that hadn’t been fired yet to go through your knee. Maybe hanging around with all those werewolves was rubbing off on Stiles, though.

The strip club was as lively and bouncy as the first time he snuck in. It was almost harder now that he was on his own, but he tagged on behind a group of screaming girls, pretending to be gay bff and ignoring the look his fake ID got from the bouncer and was lost in the shadows near the walls soon enough He’d also managed to catch the eye of a suspicious waiter as he’d skulked to his observation position, which added the edge of panic that they were going to throw him out.

Nerves and a sick feeling in Stiles’s stomach were the perfect accompaniment to the change in pitch of the screaming girls. New dancer. He should focus. Ah. That was the problem. He’d thought Jackson wasn’t working tonight – there was some pack thing. But he was obviously wrong.

Jackson had abandoned the schoolboy shtick for something sporty. He wasn’t wearing his lacrosse uniform (Stiles had to stifle a giggle at the idea of peeling off all the padding on the stage to the low bass beat), but it was still long shorts and a shirt that Jackson didn’t tease much with, pulling it off and using it like towel around his neck. Stiles caught sight of a new addition, one that definitely wasn’t present in the locker room. A gold hoop hung through one of Jackson’s perfectly formed nipples, glinting in the flash of the lights. Jackson tugged at it, goading his audience into new fits of screaming. It had the intended effect, though wholly undesired for Stiles, whose mouth watered at the idea of wrapping his tongue around that hoop, pulling it with his teeth.

It was cheesy as hell, the way Jackson teased the women nearest the stage with the waistband. Stiles had the sudden vivid fantasy of actually being able to do this, of catching Jackson alone in the locker room and rolling the waistband down, pulling the shorts to mid-thigh, burying himself in the curve of Jackson’s ass, licking and biting. He wondered if Jackson liked it rougher now that he had more strength. Would Jackson take it or would he have his hands all over Stiles, pulling him closer, harder, demanding more?

Jackson’s eyes sought him out over the heads of the crowd. He nodded, imperceptible but obviously deciding something. The rest of his dance swam past – shorts off, ass framed by a jockstrap, women falling over themselves to dare each other to sneak cash into the leg holes, to cop a feel. Jackson was a piece of meat, nothing more than a body to lust over. He didn’t jump into the crowd like the other strippers, or pull one of the panting women out of the crowd to crawl all over. He was still giving off the same look, don’t touch vibes that he did when he was pretending to be perfect. Stiles found the nervous twist returning to his stomach. That wasn’t Jackson. He might be the same douche Stiles had always known, but he wasn’t just a mannequin. He was…

So. Lust had apparently managed to get a little mixed up in Stiles’s head with all the feelings of “friend” and “pack,” with perhaps even a little bit of worry and caring thrown in. Jackson’s set was finishing up. He blew a kiss with his fingertips, a taunt directed not at the women in the audience who were funding his little break for freedom, but at Stiles. That was also something to think about.

“Let’s hear it for Jack the Stripper!” the announcer yelled as a couple of security guards made their way towards Stiles. He winced at the name more than at the way the guys gestured for him to head out. He’d already seen what he’d come here for, after all.

 

Jackson was in Stiles’s bedroom when Stiles finally arrived home. He hadn’t objected to the bouncers showing him the door more than in a token denial way, but had spent some time driving around, taking the Jeep for a run. He’d needed to think.

Stiles’s brain didn’t normally work things out like that. Normally he jumped to conclusions and landed feet first in whatever mess resulted. Derek’s arrest for Laura’s murder was possibly a case in point. Stiles didn’t tend to think things over, pick them apart, obsess. That was more Scott’s kind of thing. Instead Stiles’s mind made decisions in an instant, a flash of genius or idiocy, or both. Maybe he was finally growing up. Maybe all his dad’s lectures were finally sinking in. There were consequences here. He needed to be careful.

His crush on Lydia was embarrassing and long-standing and safe. Jackson was the very opposite of safe. And there was a moment of clarity that made Stiles consider whether he was just replacing pretty, untouchable Lydia with equally untouchable and beautiful Jackson. They were acceptable crushes. The key element Jackson and Lydia both shared was the entire lack of possibility either of them would ever want to date Stiles. Or, you know, be seen in public with him. And Stiles had to wonder what it was in his makeup that decided he wasn’t going to be brave enough to put himself out there and genuinely try to date, rather than fixating on the unobtainable. And that thought was uncomfortable enough for Stiles to take his Jeep up the country roads for a couple hours, listen to some mindless music, and angst.

Jackson was dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt, his jacket thrown across the bed. He was in the chair beside the window, palms flat on his jeans and a fixedly blank expression on his face. Stiles controlled his urge to shout in shock and shut the door behind him. He _really_ didn’t want to explain to his dad why Jackson, of all people, was in his bedroom.

There was awkward silence. Stiles wracked his brain, trying to think of some kind of conversation starter that wasn’t “So, good night at work? Collect a lot of singles?”

Jackson finally let out a noise that was something of a growl, and pushed himself out of the chair in this fluid, smooth, utterly sensual twist that somehow ended with him shoving Stiles back against his closed door and holding him there. What was it with werewolves and pinning him to things?

“I dance better when you’re there.” Jackson didn’t sound happy. By the same token, Stiles took a couple of moments to process what Jackson was saying. He’d been expecting a threat to pull out his lungs or disembowel him or something.

“What?” Jackson was really close and he was warm and firm and close, and Stiles’s cock was apparently now conditioned to start responding.

“I dance better. It’s easier. I can smell you through the haze and alcohol and perfume, and I dance better.” Jackson ground the words out, pinning Stiles with a glare and refusing to let him look away. Stiles could see, therefore, when Jackson’s eyes dropped to his mouth before shooting up again, almost like Jackson couldn’t help it. “I can smell you through any crowd, Stiles.”

“Pack? Some pack thing?” Stiles really needed Jackson to step away, or else he really was going to embarrass himself.

Jackson dropped forward, his mouth close to Stiles’s ear. “I can smell you, how much you want me. And I like it.” That last was spoken so softly, so reluctantly, that Stiles was almost unsure he’d heard correctly. He let out a noise in the region of a whimper, as Jackson was suddenly closer and everywhere and Stiles could feel his _reciprocal_ hardness, the line of his dick up against his own. 

That was unexpected. But Stiles was sixteen and there was a hot guy pressed all up against him and it was Jackson and he knew what he could do with those hips and it made him even harder. They hadn’t even kissed and already he was plotting and planning and coming up with ways he could get Jackson out of his clothes, not in a for-money way.

Jackson mouthed across his throat, his jaw, teasing closer and closer. In this proximity, Stiles realised he had a couple of inches on Jackson. That surprised him. He’d always imagined Jackson as bigger, taller, stronger than him. Well, stronger was certainly true as Jackson cupped his head with barely contained power and tilted it so he could kiss Stiles. Stiles had a moment of processing yes, no, yes before he was able to react, parting his lips and kissing like he knew how.

Jackson spun them, a dizzying whirl, until Stiles was on his bed, legs parted to make a space for Jackson between them. They were both hard and wanting but neither of them seemed eager to stop kissing, to stop _making out_ as tongues and lips and hands brushed and pressed and tasted and let them roll against each other in an endless loop of feedback.

A noise downstairs reminded Stiles his dad was still home, and he froze. His dad wouldn't believe this, wouldn't get why Jackson was sprawled on top of him, lips as if they'd been drenched with cherry chapstick. Stiles wondered what his own mouth looked like - puffy? Used? His hips, totally without his own control, shot up and brushed against Jackson's hard cock. His door was locked and, if they were quiet, his dad would never know. Or at least wouldn't know until Stiles felt ready to tell him.

Jackson pulled away, making Stiles worry for a moment. But he was only pulling away to tug at his top, peel off his shirt. It wasn't a tease, wasn't stripping. Instead it was the need to be skin to skin with Stiles that drove him to be naked. That teasing, smooth operator who charmed bills from screeching women was nowhere in the desperate and hurried boy kneeling up between his legs, hands a little too heavy as they dropped to the hem of Stiles's T-shirt, tugging it up around Stiles's armpits. 

"Please, Stiles..." The words shot out on a frustrated exhalation, begging and demanding. Stiles leaned up, letting Jackson pull off his shirt and then press him back against his unmade bed, finally skin to skin, Jackson's piercing cold and warm all at the same time. Stiles gasped into Jackson's kiss.

There was the noise of heavy footsteps outside his room. He grabbed Jackson's hips to still him, pull him tight just in case the bed creaked the wrong way. Jackson didn't seem to understand the urgency and continued to mouth at Stiles's skin, kissing and trying to roll his hips abortively under Stiles's fierce grip. The footsteps faded, the door to his dad's room closed, and the faint hum of the TV in there made its way to Stiles's perked-up ears.

"I can be quiet, Stilinksi," Jackson murmured, breath warm against his ear again. "I can be so, so good." 

And that was pretty much it. Stiles used his iron grip on Jackson’s hips to steer him closer and to the right angle, tilting his neck to capture his mouth again. Three, four thrusts and all the arousal and want and need spilled forth. Stiles clung on through the aftershocks, not wanting to pull away despite the sensitivity of his cock and the rather icky feel of the come in his boxers. Jackson had slumped against him, nosing and kissing at his ear, his neck again. Stiles hadn’t even felt him come.

“You smell…” Jackson’s words trailed off into a contented hum as he rearranged himself on the bed, heaving chest slowing to something less frantic. He seemed unwilling to let Stiles go, trying to maintain as much contact as possible.

“I’m a sweaty mess.” Stiles kept his voice low and soft, barely vocalising as Jackson raised an eyebrow from where his head lay on Stiles’s shoulder. Then, very deliberately, Jackson stuck out his tongue and licked Stiles’s skin. Stiles shook with supressed laughter. He would never have presumed Jackson to have a sense of humour. He realised just how little he actually knew about Jackson, being as they were either saving each other from mortal peril or ignoring each other’s existence.

Jackson seemed to sense the change in mood, rolling over and sitting on the edge of the bed, grabbing his shirt. Stiles froze in panic. He didn’t want Jackson to run out of here, run away. He wasn’t a booty call or a hook-up. They were pack.

“So, uh,” he began. “I’ve got your number but do you—” Jackson still had his back to him and Stiles’s stomach sank, but he had to try. Call him an incurable romantic or something. He didn’t just want to fuck around with Jackson – although, that was definitely going to be part of what they did, because oh god yes – but, yeah, they were going to date. Stiles was determined. “Maybe pizza? Movie? I don’t know. We could go out.”

Jackson wasn’t moving. At all. It was an eerie stillness, so unnatural compared to his usual power and strength on the lacrosse field or as a wolf or even as a stripper. “You want to go out?”

“Well, yeah. Or stay in. Just, you know, hang.” Stiles could feel any chance of him and Jackson getting together again slipping away. “Or not.”

“Just don’t make me watch _The Notebook_.” Jackson finished pulling on his shirt and turned around, leaning over Stiles and kissing him almost shyly. Stiles would take that as a yes.


End file.
